


Feel Like A Young God

by Hrunting_License



Series: A Bending, Breaking Wheel [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But tagging both to be safe, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Parent/Child Incest, M/M, Really more Dubcon than Noncon, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hrunting_License/pseuds/Hrunting_License
Summary: Fëanáro shows up at his brother's house in Tirion with a suggestion, and only one rule: first one to flinch is the loser.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Series: A Bending, Breaking Wheel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103060
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	Feel Like A Young God

**Author's Note:**

> Done as a request from [this hour](https://thishour.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, with the prompt, "Fëanor/Fingolfin, first one to flinch is the loser," but I got just a little invested and I think this might link up with Desperate Measures...
> 
> Open for requests [on my Tumblr!](https://hrunting-license.tumblr.com/)

“You’re clear on the rules?”

“There’s only one, isn’t there?”

“Aye. See that you remember it.”

Ñolofinwë should not have agreed to this. He knew it. He thought even Fëanáro knew it, and that was why he had issued the challenge in the first place. He had done so in private, which was unusual for him when he could be grandstanding in front of their father and everyone, flaunting his position as the Crown Prince.

But Ñolofinwë _had_ agreed, because it was rare that Fëanáro sought him out, rarer still he suggested they partake in even such a contentious activity as this together. And Fëanáro had come to his house, his cloak raised about his face in the waning of Telperion’s flowers, and his eyes had burned so intensely Ñolofinwë could not have refused him anything.

Even if it was a _very_ bad idea.

“Where is your lovely wife?” Fëanáro asked, and something in his tone made Ñolofinwë struggle not to bare his teeth, even if the words were polite enough.

“She and my _children_ ,” he answered, unwilling to let his brother forget for a moment that his line was not the only line of Finwë of consequence, “have gone with Arafinwë to Alqualondë, to meet with Eärwen’s family. Her father has promised them a swan boat of their own, if they are well-behaved.”

He could see the mockery turn to interest, then to dismissive anger in his brother’s eyes. He stripped off his cloak, and Ñolofinwë tossed it onto the floor, leaving them both in tunic and leggings, their boots stood up neatly side by side. “If they have nothing better to do than sail about all day,” Fëanáro said casually, “I suppose I could see the appeal. My sons will carve greater destinies.”

 _Whether they want to or not_ , Ñolofinwë almost replied, but swallowed that. They were not here to bicker about their sons, which had become far more contentious since Turukáno had grown taller than Nelyafinwë, for some stupid reason. “Three rounds, you said?”

“No.” Fëanáro’s eyes glittered in the low lighting, shut off from the Light of the Trees, the shades pulled closed. “I said the first one to flinch is the loser.”

 _Stop that_ , Ñolofinwë ordered his body, when a thrum of hot eagerness pulsed through him at the words, delivered in that odd, excited tone that Fëanáro usually only spoke in when he was working on a new project. “But if neither of us does? How will we know when to stop?”

Fëanáro smiled. It was not a kind smile. “Simple enough. We’ll stop when you flinch.”

Ñolofinwë settled into a fighter’s crouch, as he’d learned for the Games each year. “Or you do, brother.”

The word had the desired effect. Fëanáro dove at him, and tackled him into a wrestling hold. His stance was good, but Ñolofinwë was taller, if not broader, and the two of them fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Fëanáro won the first round, getting Ñolofinwë’s arm wrenched up behind his back. Ñolofinwë took the second, with his foot connecting so hard with his brother’s jaw that he went staggering back into the wall. Something savage and dark uncurled in him at the sight, only to flare brighter when Fëanáro opened his eyes again, and they were burning with a fire that Ñolofinwë could not begin to understand.

Fëanáro took the third round, with a grab to Ñolofinwë’s throat that slammed him against the floor. Ñolofinwë gasped for air, struggling to turn over or bat his brother’s arm aside, but Fëanáro’s arms were corded with sculpted muscle, and he held fast, his fingers squeezing cruelly. Spots flashed in front of Ñolofinwë’s eyes, and he choked, his eyes locked on Fëanáro’s.

For a moment, they stared at each other, less than a foot apart, locked body to body. Fëanáro’s hand tightened. Still, Ñolofinwë didn’t flinch. He wondered vaguely, as his vision started to darken, whether Námo would laugh at him, for arriving in the Halls so unceremoniously.

Then Fëanáro’s hand loosened, and he inhaled deeply, his eyes still focused on Fëanáro’s. “I didn’t flinch,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“You didn’t.”

“So we aren’t finished.”

“You would let me take it so far?”

Ñolofinwë knocked his hand aside at last, surging up to a sitting position, his chin stubbornly set. Pain flared in his shoulder, his ribs, his throat, but there was something about his brother that made him unable to back down.

There weren’t even stakes.

He hadn’t even asked what they were competing for.

Fëanáro had just showed up, hooded and cloaked, and let himself in, and goaded him into a sparring match. _First one to flinch is the loser._

Fëanáro lunged at him, quick and deadly, and Ñolofinwë only barely managed to dodge. Fëanáro’s hand caught his hair, and Ñolofinwë whipped his foot around, catching his brother in the back of the knee. Both of them were brutal, determined, driving their feet and knees and elbows into each other’s soft parts, little grunts and snarls coming from their mouths.

What was Fëanáro even _doing_ here? What could he hope to get out of it? Why was Ñolofinwë allowing this nonsense?

There was just something about Fëanáro’s intensity that he could never refuse. Who could? Not even their father.

Ñolofinwë caught an elbow in his ear, and twisted to the side to avoid a hard strike directly at his face. He lunged back, feeling a strange catharsis in being able to grapple like this, hand-to-hand, the way he only had with other wrestlers at the Games and in training.

Fëanáro did not fight like they did in the Games. He fought savagely, with his teeth and his nails, and Ñolofinwë only barely managed to avoid being ripped open more than once.

And then he saw his opening, and drove his knee directly at his brother’s face.

He wasn’t expecting how fast, or how strong Fëanáro was. Suddenly the world was spinning, and he felt the floor hit his back, or perhaps he was hitting the floor. Ñolofinwë groaned, dazed, and the next thing he knew, Fëanáro was leaning down over him, his eyes blazing. “You can give up any time you like,” Fëanáro said, his voice hot and dangerous, a silken caress. “Just admit I’m better than you.”

“Why would I do that?”

Fëanáro’s lips parted, and there was a strange light in his face. His hand was splayed on Ñolofinwë’s chest, holding him down to the floor. His other hand came up, touching Ñolofinwë’s face, with a weird tremble to them that made Ñolofinwë suck in a breath. Still he held still. They’d agreed.

And then Fëanáro kissed him.

His tongue was suddenly inside Ñolofinwë’s mouth, hot and intent and hungry in a way that was so shocking, Ñolofinwë’s mind simply stopped working. He stopped breathing. His eyes went wide, his body suddenly still, and he thought he might have gone briefly unconscious from the confusion.

Then Fëanáro pulled back, eyes searching his. “Still no?” he murmured, as if they were still fighting, as if everything still made sense. “You don’t want to call it off?”

“Fëanáro,” Ñolofinwë started to say, his voice warning, because _surely_ this was going too far for a stupid wager (it wasn’t even a wager, there were no stakes, he was here for no reason except an inability to tell his brother to leave him alone).

Fëanáro’s hand was suddenly diving down, his burning eyes intent, fingers rucking up Ñolofinwë’s tunic. “How strong do you think you are, Nolvo?” he murmured, and hearing his shortened name on his brother’s lips--for the first time, what a joke of a family they were--made Ñolofinwë’s cock twitch. Probably because he was keyed up from the sparring. “You think you could get away now, if you tried?”

He couldn’t just keep letting Fëanáro get to him. If he just lay there, letting his brother push it farther and farther, he would lose, and Fëanáro would look at him with disgust and disappointment again, and this would all be even stupider than it already was.

He could hear Anairë laughing at him for caring. She wasn’t cruel, but she would cluck her tongue, and card her fingers through his hair, and call him a sweet fool who couldn’t help himself.

But how could he back down now?

Fëanáro smirked. “Just flinch already. I already know it’s too much for you.”

Anairë would laugh at him. But he _couldn’t_ back down now.

So instead of flinching, he reached up, and thrust a thigh between Fëanáro’s legs.

“Oho,” Fëanáro said, his voice low and dark. There was a noticeable bulge against Ñolofinwë’s thigh that made his breath hitch. “Maybe you’re not quite as useless as I thought.”

That should not make him hard. No, no, this was getting out of hand. Ñolofinwë tried to sit up, but Fëanáro’s arm was like iron, pinning him down to the floor. “This isn’t over.”

“It’s over,” Ñolofinwë said, and hoped his voice sounded as firm as he intended. “Let me up.”

“You haven’t flinched.”

“Stars, Fëanáro, you’re taking this too far.”

“Shut up.”

“Fëa--“

Fëanáro’s hand was heavy on his chest. The other one yanked down his leggings, and with the first brush of his large, strong hand, Ñolofinwë’s breath caught in horror. “You _wouldn’t_ \--“

“I said shut up.”

Ñolofinwë lurched up, trying hard now, but Fëanáro was stronger than he was. They wrestled again, briefly, but Ñolofinwë was in a bad position from the start, and Fëanáro was only too willing to do violence to achieve his ends. Just now, those ends seemed to be stripping Ñolofinwë efficiently, some of the fine cloth tearing in the process, until they were both nude, pressed up against each other. “Look at you,” Fëanáro panted, and kicked apart his legs, hard enough that Ñolofinwë knew he’d have bruises. “You’re so pathetic. Hungry for it, aren’t you?”

“You’re being absurd,” Ñolofinwë hissed, and would have struck him, but Fëanáro grabbed his wrist, twisting suddenly, until pain sparked white and hot through him. “F-Fëanáro, let go--“

“You can take that kind of pain, hm? Good. How many servants are in your house today, Nolvo?”

“Enough that someone will hear me, if you don’t--“

“And do you want that?” Fëanáro’s voice was silken against his ear, his breath hot, coming in quick eager huffs. “You want your staff to see you like this under me?”

Mestawë, the cook, who baked extra honeycakes on Irissë’s Begetting Day? Lelyanil, who handled the horses with ease, and pretended loyally that Findekáno had never fallen asleep on foal watch? Remaquen, who never protested the extra work when Turukáno went through a dozen pens in a fortnight, and whittled as many as he needed?

Which of them would he want to see him, naked and splay-legged, beneath his brother’s burning body?

“That’s what I thought. Come, now, don’t look like that.” Fëanáro gripped his chin, leaning in to very deliberately bite Ñolofinwë’s bottom lip, leaving it bruised and bleeding. “You opened the door for me when your wife was away, didn’t you? You had to know this would happen.”

“You’re mad,” Ñolofinwë hissed. “Who could know you would do something this insane? Get off of me!”

“Be honest. You don’t want that.” Fëanáro’s hand stole down, gripping his cock and stroking with sudden surety, his calloused fingers working over the erect length. “Mm. You’re not small here, are you? Not as big as me, but at least you aren’t embarrassing Father.”

“If anyone is embarrassing Father, it’s this behavior of yours!” Heat surged through Ñolofinwë’s body, and he felt his back start to arch under the touch. “You...if you just leave now--“

“We’ve gone much too far for that.”

They had. Ñolofinwë could agree with that.

“You’ve gone too far,” he said, and with a surge of effort, knocked Fëanáro onto his back. His brother’s eyes were blazing, almost amused as he leaned back. There were bruises forming on his face and body from their earlier match, but Fëanáro was a fast healer. They would be gone by the next day.

Fëanáro laughed. He reached a hand down, and slowly teased at his own cock, as Ñolofinwë’s eyes drifted inexorably down. “Now’s your chance,” he said, and Ñolofinwë could not have said whether he meant now was Ñolofinwë’s chance to leave...

Or to do something much, much worse.

“Go on, Nolvo.” Fëanáro’s voice was softer, more dangerous. “You haven’t flinched yet.”

Twice in one night. It was the most Fëanáro had ever _looked_ at him, much less touched him, even if...

Even if it wasn’t what it was supposed to be.

But their family wasn’t normal, was it? The first half-siblings in the world, and who was to say what they were supposed to be? Perhaps it was normal that he sometimes, secretly, thought of what it would be like to feel Fëanáro’s hands in his hair, yanking him close.

Ñolofinwë shoved at Fëanáro’s shoulders, and felt his brother relent, leaning back on his elbows, eyebrows raised mockingly. He stole a kiss of his own, less cruel, and tasted Fëanáro’s laugh against his mouth. “So gentle,” Fëanáro said, and it was obviously sarcasm. “As sweet as my Káno, when you’re in a mood, aren’t you?”

“Your--“ Ñolofinwë’s eyes widened with sudden realization, then revulsion. He pulled back, but his shock gave Fëanáro a chance, and then he was facedown on the floor, Fëanáro above, behind him, his cock dragging hard and insistent against the curve of Ñolofinwë’s ass.

“Fëanáro, you--“

“I was giving you a chance to be sweet,” Fëanáro breathed against his ear, and then there were fingers shoving into his mouth, making him choke as they dragged over his tongue. “You’ll wish you had been. Have you ever had anyone inside you?”

Everything felt strange and vague. Ñolofinwë felt his breath hitch, and he tentatively ran his tongue over his brother’s fingers, feeling his cock twitch even if he couldn’t stop thinking--

\--it was wrong, it was _wrong_ , he couldn’t forget that this was--

\-- _As sweet as my Káno_ \--

\--What about the others?--

\--He was so hard, the fingers in his mouth were making him drool--

\--Valar, he could never let Findekáno go over there again--

A sharp slap echoed through the room, and Ñolofinwë jumped at the flare of pain through his buttocks, startled, as the fingers finally pulled free from his mouth, leaving his lips wet with saliva, making him feel sloppy and wanton already. “What?” he asked, dazed.

“I asked you if you’d ever had anyone inside you. And you were about to tell me.”

“I--“ Ñolofinwë shook his head. Was he going along with this? He _was_ , though he couldn’t have said why. “Yes.”

Fëanáro went still behind him. “Who?”

“What matter--“

Fëanáro grabbed his throat from behind, so hard even his nails sank in, making Ñolofinwë choke and writhe, twisting desperately against the suddenly merciless grip. “Who?” he snarled, and he did not sound like the same person that had been behind him a moment before. “Who was it? Who did you let bend you over, you filthy little harlot? Was--was it--“

He cut himself off, as if there were something he could not stand to voice, and finally released Ñolofinwë’s throat, leaving him to retch and gasp at the pain. “M-my wife,” he stammered, his vision swimming, before Fëanáro could get violent again. “It’s--there’s something...something I made her, we--“

Wet fingers shoved inside him, and he keened low in his throat, the sudden invasion too intimate, too startling after the brutality of a moment before. “Fëanáro, stop, I don’t--not anymore, you’re taking it too--“

“Shut _up_ ,” Fëanáro snarled, and bit his ear, bringing tears to Ñolofinwë’s eyes. “Every word you say makes me hate you more, but you keep speaking, _why?_ Spread your legs, at least be good for something.”

 _I could tell Father_ , Ñolofinwë thought wildly, even as he shifted, spreading his knees apart on the hard floor, biting his sore lip as he felt his brother’s fingers twist and spread inside of him, opening him up, making him pant through his bruised throat. _I could get away, I could stop him, I could expose him for the pervert he is. I could tell his wife._

Then what?

_This isn’t him, though._

The thought came to him, and he knew it was right. His brother was strange, intense, burned too-hot, quick-tempered and aggressive, but he wasn’t _vicious_. Fëanáro was passionate and clever, wrathful and ardent all at once, but not--

_Maybe it’s just with me. Maybe he just hates me that much._

Maybe it was Melkor’s shadow, coming between them.

Ñolofinwë could believe that.

He could endure that.

Yes, that was what it was--the shadow, twisting something that, maybe, could have been good.

_And if I take it, and like it, does that make it good again? Does that banish the shadow?_

Fëanáro pulled his fingers out, and his breath was quick and excited as his cock pressed up against Ñolofinwë’s cleft, running up and down, smearing it with precome. “Don’t worry, Nolvo,” Fëanáro murmured, in a tone entirely unlike his previous outburst. His hands were even gentle, smoothing up and down Ñolofinwë’s sides, his back, making him arch and let out a little gasp. “I know what you need.”

No one, no matter how generous they were in spirit to Ñolofinwë or how much they loathed Fëanáro, could have looked at the picture they made now and called him unwilling, Ñolofinwë knew. His head was bowed, his back arched, and he lifted up onto his elbows as he shoved back.

No matter what had come between them, he could _not_ allow this act to happen unwillingly. It was not who he was. He would kill his brother--unthinkable--or he would be a part of this...madness.

Maybe their family was all slightly mad, after all.

The head of Fëanáro’s cock caught at his hole, and Ñolofinwë grunted, closed his eyes, and bore down, relaxing as he’d learned long ago, when the person with him had been his beautiful wife and her hard marital aid, when he’d been so afraid to show her how much he enjoyed the feeling of something spreading him open for fear she’d think...

 _For fear she’d think you were daydreaming about something like this?_ he thought almost bitterly, and heard himself laugh, short and harsh and strange as Fëanáro pushed into his body, and the sound turned into a groan.

Fëanáro was hot and heavy inside of him, and Ñolofinwë bit his lip, opening the skin to taste blood again. His brother’s cock pulsed in his belly, working into him with short, sharp thrusts that stuffed him a little more full every time, making his eyes roll back, making his nipples tingle as his cock dripped onto the floor of the practice room. “F-Fëanáro...”

“Knew it. Look at you opening up for me, like a little _flower_.”

It was different from doing this with Anairë. She had held the object in her hand, had kissed his shoulder and been so focused on him, stroking her nails down his back. Fëanáro gripped his hips with hands like iron, and yanked him back onto every thrust, letting out bestial, delighted, hungry sounds with each snap of his hips.

And that pulsing fullness within him, that he’d liked so much when it was just a hard toy, was scrambling his brains now that it was hot flesh. His lips parted on a moan, and he squeezed his eyes shut, leaning into that feeling, chasing it with every not-quite-slick-enough slide into his willing body.

Fëanáro shifted against something inside of him, a glancing blow, and he cursed, shifting and arching and squirming to try and get more of that angle, more of that feeling. He managed, and with the next thrust Fëanáro struck dead center, and making him yelp with pleasure. “Right--do that again,” he groaned, slamming one of his hands down against the floor as he shoved back.

Fëanáro let out a harsh, startled laugh, and for a moment, Ñolofinwë thought he would be denied, that Fëanáro _only_ wanted this if Ñolofinwë wasn’t going to enjoy it. Fëanáro’s thrusts stilled for a moment, and he asked, his voice almost sweet, “Would you beg for it?”

“Just--“

Ñolofinwë’s voice broke, and he rocked back, cursing when Fëanáro held him fast. “What do you want me to say?”

“You should already know.”

The sweet heat of arousal turned to a griping hunger, everything suddenly too-hot, too-full, as Ñolofinwë struggled to push back. “Fëanáro--“

“You’re married, aren’t you?” Fëanáro rocked his hips in, almost lazy except for the way it was so obviously, viciously deliberate. He reached a hand around, running a fingernail idly over the head of Ñolofinwë’s cock, making him tremble and gasp, hips jerking as much as he was able, desperate for more contact. “You must know how to beg on your knees by now. Your wife doesn’t look like she does much of it.”

“Don’t talk about--“

Fëanáro gripped his balls suddenly, and Ñolofinwë went abruptly silent, the threat of real damage making his pulse race. “I’ll talk about whatever I want when you’re writhing on my cock,” he said, low and deadly. “Beg for me to give you what you need, and I will. You’ve never felt anything like me inside you, have you?”

He hadn’t. Damn him, but he hadn’t. Ñolofinwë shook his head, and heard Fëanáro chuckle, and grind his hips forward, with little shallow motions that hit everything but the angle Ñolofinwë wanted most. “Go on, then.”

Ñolofinwë swallowed hard. He opened his mouth, and tried to summon the words. Then Fëanáro released his balls, and trailed his fingertips, feather-light, up the shaft of his cock. He squirmed, squeezing down to try and urge his brother to take him harder, faster, if he would not take him correctly, but everything was too-hot, too-tight, too-hard, and before he knew it, he was drawing in great shuddering gasps of air, panting, “Please, Fëanáro, fuck me, I need you to--to take me, right there-- _yes,_ yes, yes, _right there,_ again, please, more--“

Whether because of his words or because he simply could not wait any longer, Fëanáro lunged forward, forcing him down until his cheek and chest were pressed against the floor, long legs spread as wide as he could when his body was at Fëanáro’s mercy, letting him rut in with ruthless precision. He struck against that bright-hot spark inside of Ñolofinwë each time, making him cry out, no longer caring whether Mestawë or Lelyanil or Remaquen or Anairë herself heard him.

He bucked, and felt pleasure overtake him, making him shake and groan, spilling onto the practice room floors. Fëanáro went still inside of him, just for a moment. Then he cursed under his breath, and his fingers dug in harder, and his next dozen thrusts were so hard that tears sprang to Ñolofinwë’s eyes, making him reach back weakly, to no avail.

Finally, Fëanáro slumped down over him, and Ñolofinwë felt him spill hot and thick into his belly, pulse after pulse of liquid heat making him tremble. His own cock gave a halfhearted little twitch at the feeling, and his eyes lidded. _If only Anairë’s could do that_ , he caught himself thinking, almost dreamily.

Fëanáro pulled out of him, and Ñolofinwë bit his lip, tasting dried blood. “You,” he said wearily, “are an ass.”

He’d _hoped_ for one of Fëanáro’s fierce, unrepentant grins, directed at him for once.

Fëanáro didn’t look at him.

He stood, his face dark and troubled, and yanked on his leggings. “This is your fault,” he muttered. “You let me take it too far. You were never supposed to be a part of it.”

Ñolofinwë stared. The world had not quite righted itself yet, and he struggled to think of what he could possibly have done wrong _now_ , lying facedown in his practice room with his brother’s semen dripping from his ass. “What?” he asked, which was not his finest response, but was the best he could do at the time.

“You--“ Fëanáro cut himself off, yanking on his tunic, then his boots. “Stay away from me. And from my sons.”

 _Almost as sweet as my Káno_ \--no, Ñolofinwë could not think of that, not right now. “You came to _my_ house, Fëanáro,” he protested, rolling over, then up into a sitting position, his limbs complaining that he’d been nearly beaten unconscious at least once and then fucked too-hard against the unforgiving floor. “You’re the one that--“

Fëanáro turned a black look on him, and Ñolofinwë fell silent. “Stay away from me. And from Father,” he snarled, and left, slamming the doors behind him as he went.

Ñolofinwë sat dumb, staring around at the practice room as if it could tell him anything about his brother, about what lay between them, or about the tangled web that he had only barely glimpsed.


End file.
